We’d bumped into each other at the GUM clinic. I’d walked into the crowded waiting room of desperately casual out-patients, my first thought being ‘So many dirty fuckers!’, my next being ‘Oh fuck, it’s Jimmy!’. Not through embarrassment, more an amused moment of simultaneous recognition. We both broke into grins that we were there, and sat and nattered with only the slightest of awkwardnesses until it was time whichever one of us had to go off first to get our waters siphoned and urethras scraped.
A couple of hours later and we were coincidentally discharged, or maybe dismissed is a better word in context. At the exit, we both pointed towards the leafy garden of the White Swan and said ‘Pint?’ with a matching hand/forearm gesture, in an amused moment of happily resigned certainty. It was one in the afternoon.
Now, Jimmy Duggan slumps against his beer. He doesn’t like the band on the juke box. ‘Is there anything worth saying about them? Their art means nothing to me.’ He knits his fingers round the straight pint glass. The sun’s shining in his face and he’s squinting as it’s glaring, the backwards lettering of a beer logo in the big window of the pub shading his mouth and frown. It’s two in the afternoon.
Outside in the baking heat of the park next to the boozer, I can hear kids screaming with early summer delight. The rattle and roll of scooter wheels and plastic beads on bike spokes. I don’t think Jimmy is hearing this, but you never know.
‘The fucking kids!’ He gulps down at least half a pint, as if the mere sound is enough. Refreshed, maybe a bit dewier of eye, he softens and purses his lips. ‘Headachey,’ he mitigates. He’s been talking with alternate bitterness and what is meant to be wry detachment about “The Scene”, with capitals, in quotes, as he insists on pronouncing it, for about at least 40 minutes. He seems to not want to talk about anything real. The knitted fingers are a bit trembly when he unlaces them and runs a hand through his hair. His barnet’s longer and less kempt than I recall from last time I saw him, which may have been six months, about, at least. He’s overall a bit unattended looking. Wearing loafers sockless, cardie buttoned up wrongly – buttoned up at all, on, in these temperatures. He is thin and distracted.
That’s when he mentions the cause of his headache, who he’s been seeing, and my bollocks retreat inside.